The many faces of home
by Annamia
Summary: Four different buildings. Four different homes. Four different stories. A glimpse into the future of the main settings of the books. Rated for hints of past violence.


_Author's note:Greetings, 'tis I, Tamara. Yes, really. I promise, it really _is_ me, and I think I may even have returned for good, at least temporarily. Okay, that was not very reassuring, but I have a stock of things to give to you lovely people. Here is the first, part of which I even truly like.  
This story -- or series of stories, actually -- was born because I am in a creative writing class, and we were talking about setting today. That got me to thinking, and I realized that I never consider setting. My writing -- all of our writing, actually -- is totally character-driven. Setting really doesn't matter, except for basic things like, to quote everyone's favorite know-it-all, 'you can't apparate or disapperate inside Hogwarts.' Other than that, I don't consider it much. So I started thinking about it more, and, aided by chai tea and copious free time which could have been spent raking leaves or doing math homework, started writing. It went from a simple description of Grimmauld Place to what you see now, which is a series of four brief snapshots of four very different places. The time period is not consistent, but all are after the war. Oh, and if anyone can give me some pointers on avoiding passive voice when I'm just describing, I will be forever in your debt. Honestly.  
I believe that's all. On to the actual story.  
--Tamara  
Disclaimer: while Ms. Rowling did vanish from time to time, she returned with a large book in tow, not a simple oneshot.

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Grimmauld Place

On Grimmauld Place, London, stands a house long empty, abandoned by all. Its secret keepers have either died or renounced their claim to the knowledge, and the house now stands exposed. None have entered in years. The inside is the same as it was when the last inhabitants stormed out. The only difference is the dust, which is more plentiful. The old House Elf is like the house, dusty and stagnant, for he is part of the house, just as the furniture is. Silence fills the once grand place, silence all the more startling because it is unexpected. None of the noises of old houses dare penetrate the dust choked atmosphere.

At the top of the stairs, clad in faded plush carpet, stand two doors, angrily confronting each other, both firmly closed, slammed shut in anger and long repressed pain. The dust might be a little thicker here, or it might just be a trick of the gloom. These rooms have stood untouched for longer even than the rest of the house, relics of a time almost forgotten. To the right, a room covered in red and gold, and to the left, one dressed in green and silver. Opposing colors, opposing viewpoints, opposing lives. The bedroom on the left has faded, though the other has not, and it has taken on an odd, desperate quality, that of a person trying so hard to please that he ends up being disliked for it. The room is slightly too earnest, and much too fawning. It looks simply desperate. It is meant to.

A large desk sits by the far wall, the only neutral colored item. Unlike the rest of the furniture, or indeed, the room itself, this desk does not seek to apologize for its very existence. It draws attention, just as it is meant to. It sits empty, bare but for a single sheet of parchment, flattened carefully and left as though by deliberate chance. It catches the eye. It stands out. It is meant to. The room is meant to draw attention to the parchment. Like the rest of the room, it has faded, and cracked slightly, but the words can still be read. That there is no one left to read them mean s nothing. One day, people will enter the house once more. They will climb the stairs, and will find the desperate, green bedroom. They will spot the desk, and they will read the parchment. Until then, it lies on the wooden desk in the faded green bedroom within the dusty, silent house, waiting.

* * *

The Burrow

The air echoes with the sound of childish laughter. The children themselves cannot be seen, but the adults track then by ear. Every adult knows the location of every child at every moment. They do not discuss it; they barely even mention the children at all, but they are all aware. They sit in the faded and overstuffed armchairs, or on the patched and repatched couch, sometimes speaking, mostly silent. The house sways gently in the breeze, a soothing rhythm that all have grown to expect. Much like other staples, the movement is only noticed when it ceases.

The fire burns noisily in the grate, but it too is ignored. Like the movement of the house, the fire has always been there, and will always be there. Outside, laughter fades, then picks up again. Conversation lulls as the adults listen to the location of their children, then picks up once more. In the attic, the ghoul moans, unnoticed.

Conversations shudder and shift, some topics milked for all they are worth, others studiously avoided. The adults know what not to discuss. They have known each other for many years. Not forever, but a long time, made even longer by the events marking so much of it. They have known the house too, and it is almost one of them. It too has lived through disasters, has known horror. It is not acknowledged by the adults because there is no need. Things which are common knowledge need not be articulated.

Outside, the laughter shifts and splits. Conversation pauses again, then resumes without a hitch.

* * *

Hogwarts

New pairs of feet tread on stone floors, just as countless others have. The stones have been worn smooth over the years, and the floors slowly grow concave, making the path taken by generations. The stone of the floor remembers the feet, all the feet, and knows the ones which do not return. Something of the magic has seeped into it over time, and it now knows too much, knows things it can never tell and of which it can never be rid.

Students sit on hard chairs, the wooden slats digging into their backs and buttocks. Their feet scuff against the cold floor, rubbing it smooth bit by bit. The castle does not mind. It enjoys the feel of the feet, enjoys the sensation of being slowly molded into something new. Students who walk, who run, who scuffle, who track dirt across newly swept floors, all are students who have returned, who are still safe. Too many are not. Too many leave, never to return. The castle senses those who have not. It remembers every footstep that has crossed it, remembers the feel of the feet and the tread of the student. Quietly, it mourns those who do not return. It cannot do otherwise. No one can hear it grieve over the lost children.

Air flows through the hallways, gently brushing the walls. The breeze confirms what the castle knew: another student has left. The air does not know when she will return. The castle doubts she ever will. As a new breath of air replaces it, the castle mourns quietly. In the halls, other students walk, some slowly, some quickly, but all distinctly. The castle knows them all, counts them all, and tries to be content that it has only lost one.

* * *

Privet Drive

A quiet orderly street, home to a quiet orderly house, home to quiet orderly people. They are not the first owners of the house, but this does not bother them. They are simple people with simple tastes, and they like their home. It is a large house, meant for more than the two live there now, but they do not mind this either. They are simply content that they have found the house, that they live in a place so comfortable and fitting.

Yet, in some ways, it is an odd house, not quite like the others on the street around them. In small ways, true, but the differences are there. An upstairs bedroom, for instance – the smaller one – has bars on the window and too many locks on the outside of the door. The cupboard under the stairs has been turned into a bedroom and obviously lived in, though it is too small to house any but the youngest of children. And the hydrangeas in the front yard have been carefully cut so that there remains enough space for a grown person to sit comfortably. The neighbors admit that the previous owners were a bit… odd, but insist that it was nothing important. The new owners take them at their word, and chalk the things up to these minor oddities. They do not mention them often. It is not that kind of neighborhood.

So, when they find owl feathers scattered around the home, they vacuum them up quietly and say nothing, just as they dispose of the fossilized rock cakes they find beneath the bed in the locked bedroom. Nor to they mention the book hidden in the corner of the cupboard under the stairs, the one recounting the fairy-tale history of imaginary people. They simply ignore it all, for they are respectable people living in a respectable home, and one simply does not mention it when things are not quite as they should be.


End file.
